


Hot, Sticky, Sweet

by cyevi



Category: Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z
Genre: F/M, It's not their first time, Lemons all the way down, Saiyans aren't humans, Speaking words is hard, Three Year Gap (Dragon Ball)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26930143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyevi/pseuds/cyevi
Summary: Vegeta has been watching Bulma ever since he ended up at Capsule Corps. On days like this, he knows she needs a bit more than a cup of coffee.(Fic inspired by Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me. This story is completed! I'll be posting one chapter each day!)
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta
Comments: 23
Kudos: 113





	1. Hot

I. Morning

“Woman, sugar.”

Bulma slammed her barely sipped coffee onto the counter next to her cell phone. She spun about fast enough to make a tornado blush, her wispy t-shirt crop top and cotton sleep shorts flipping to catch her. Her frazzled morning hair bounced with the movement.

“Get it yourself!”

Bulma's grip on the handle of her mug tightened so that her knuckles burned white, other hand planted on her hip. For the first time since his arrival, she sized him up. Not just gawked, or flirted, or postured with an empty threat. Really looked him over with dark thoughts of planting her fist into his cheek. Vegeta, sitting at the table with his hand around his own mug, arched a brow at her and waited.

“I am not your servant! I am the closest fucking thing on this planet to actual royalty! You have been given quarters, training facilities, and enough food to feed a small continent. But still, you bark and growl like a wild dog. So get your OWN DAMN SUGAR before I see if your face would look better wearing my coffee mug!”

He watched her snap every word like a well-trained rapier, but noted that the volley left her shaking and breathing faster than usual. With a voice like coarse sandpaper rubbing across wet quartz, he stood his ground.

“Your sugar. Now, Woman.”

With a shriek, Bulma whipped her mug off the counter directly at Vegeta's face. Black coffee arched through the air. Vegeta watched the mug soar toward his face and considered seven options by the time it had traveled half the distance between them. He would later revisit this decision, but in the moment, staying still and letting the mug crash across his jaw seemed perfect. Vegeta dropped his latent energy levels and shut his eyes.

The ceramic exploded across his face, then the table, and scattered like shrapnel on the floor. His body remained as solid and still as ever, but was now considerably wetter. Near boiling coffee splashed across his white training top and blue pants. Splatters hit his gloves and boots. A small cut formed above his jaw and painted his skin with a rivulet of his blood. When the last chunk of mug had stopped rattling around on the floor, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

Anger dripped away from her face in time with the coffee sliding down his chest. Her cheeks melted into disbelief.

“Why didn't you…” she stumbled, adrenaline short-circuiting disbelief. “Serves you right!” She crossed her arms in a defensive huff. Vegeta stood. The metal chair legs scratched against the floor. She stood her ground with four months worth of venomous insults behind her next breath.

Ignoring the dark line of blood now framing the side of his face, Vegeta reached behind his neck with both arms, hooked the shirt into his thumbs, and drew the wet training top off his chest in a smooth, slow motion. The soaked shirt dropped with a frump and a drop of blood-laden coffee from his chin chased it to the floor.

Gloves dropped to the table. His skin was no longer dripping, but the late morning light caught the wet trails which traced the lines of his impossible muscles. Bulma ignored any possible defense, inviting further danger by stepping her words further into his striking reach. She leaned forward, her crop top barely covering the swell of her breasts.

“How about YOU pour ME another cup of coffee?” Exasperated, Bulma pressed her fingers to her temple and stopped staring at the man. “Dammit Vegeta!”

Bulma grabbed a new coffee mug and turned to the pot. With trembling hands, she poured herself a new mug of liquid wake-the-hell-up.

Vegeta paced his words slowly this time, watching his blood mingle with the coffee on the floor. “Pour the sugar. Now.”

“Still with the demands. Newsflash! You are on EARTH now. You are a guest here, at my benevolence. A shred of politeness will not kill you. How about you give it a try, hmm?”

Holding her new mug up, she took a slow inhale of the roasted fumes. But before taking a much needed sip, she redirected her attention to the problem in the room, and with sing-song petulance, chided him. “Repeat after me: 'Can you give me the sugar, please?'”

Vegeta traversed the distance between them, mug slivers crunching to dust beneath his boots. Bulma glared over the new mug and challenged his approach with a look that would cut bone. His eyes regarded her without challenge.

“Can you...” He began. Stopping arm's reach from her, he placed his hand over her new mug, gripping it securely. The hair rose on the back of her neck and she had a distinct desire to snarl at him. Her upper lip flicked.

“...give me...” Without spilling a drop, he yanked the cup free from her hand and placed it on the counter behind her as he stepped into her space. He reached his arms on either side of her body, pressing his palms to the counter, trapping her. His body shifted one step closer so that a deep breath from either would cause their chests to touch. She raised her chin to him, imperiously.

“...the sugar...” His eyes dropped away from her face, scanned her bare neck, then lingered on the low neckline of her top. From this blatant study, she swallowed and held her breath. And in this moment, they both paused, wits ready for the next strike. He heard her heart wait. She felt a drop of blood from his chin fall onto her sternum and begin a slow trace between her breasts. The distance separating them compressed into a fuse, ready for a single spark. His unwavering eyes returned to hers and it was now the second time he had been this close to her. Memories, of unspoken questions that had been behind her eyes, of her lips pressed suddenly to his, of her soft body pretending to crush him against his bedroom door that had opened once before, belatedly invited him to shift his hips against hers. Flint to stone, a slight pressure, hardness, unyielding flesh. She swallowed and parted her lips, lighting the spark.

“Please.” She finished the request against his lips, whispering a single, shared breath. Her eyelashes flitted against his cheek as she closed her eyes. Separated now from her searing blue gaze which had orchestrated the destruction of his killer, which had brought him back to life, and had ultimately managed to change the destiny of the universe, he was able to swallow his own breath and hold back from her impossible gravitational pull.

Let her frustrations explode onto him. Let her drain every drop of her unnecessary anger toward his energy. A single cut on his face born from her fury was a simple blood offering to the woman who gave him chance after chance after chance. She, who gave him endless opportunities, with every direct challenge and demand to be the Prince he had been born to be. She seemed perpetually unaware of the true magnitude of her influence, how tightly her personal existence had wrapped itself around the strongest beings of the universe. How could he not be at a loss for words around her when it was easier to give her his blood? He understood that language, at least.

She described herself as royalty, but having lived that life, he knew she was nothing of the sort. The idea itself insulted him. Royalty, born into the privilege of servitude, put him on a singular path of the loneliest search for power. Everyone around him prodding for unwavering leadership while incessantly seeking any fault, for any opportunity to take everything, and still control every step and breath of his life. Bred for control, it was a life absent of trust, full of false loyalties. Bred for perfection because mistakes guaranteed a swift death.

But that was not Bulma's life. This woman was loved by so many, but not controlled. She charted her own directions and others followed, every time. Her influence reached through death and time itself. Bulma was a _goddess_. As far as he was concerned, his existence, his strength, and his blood were rightfully hers.

And right now, this exhausted goddess with her frazzled hair, who he had tried to support by reminding her to pour some sugar into her _own_ coffee, wanted to wake up by pressing her lips to his. She hadn't understood his words; Earthlings used so many to express so little. Her body spoke more clearly now than her words, and he listened acutely. Her hand slid against the trickle of blood on his jaw, her head tilting to press her lips against his. Bloodplay. Her desire screamed at his coffee soaked flesh. His explanation could wait. Her body couldn't.

And when she kissed him, he pressed their bodies together, her hips trapped against the counter, his blood dripping between her fingers as their lips joined, the heat of their breaths intermingling. Two curves, bending together to fill a single space. As her tongue slipped past his teeth, her free hand slipped along his hip, thumb tracing the line of his angular obliques. She rocked her hips against his, one foot leaving the ground so that her leg could hook behind his thigh. Undeniable hardness rubbed against the soft nothings of her flimsy shorts. He rocked his body against hers, his fingers compressing the counter top with an audible crack as she bid him into her heat.

With a gasp, she broke off the kiss and pulled her fingers from his face. The deep red vitae smeared across her palm caught her attention, and with a heated smile, she ran her tongue across his essence. The act left a small smear of his blood along her own jaw line, and he rumbled at the sight.

“Vegeta,” she began, her voice surprisingly low and buttery. Her eyes returned to his and her back arched into his space, grinding her hips against him. “Give me your c– ” The custom melody she set on her cell phone cut off her words and stiffened her body. Vegeta closed his eyes, refusing to look at the obnoxious communication device sitting not an arm's length from them. He knew that tune and knew it was linked to that weakling the Woman had been courted by in the past. So, she still hadn't told the fool about her time with him? Fine. He would wait. Again.

With another crunch, he pulled away from her, leaving a pile of counter top dust on the floor with the coffee mug shards. He pivoted toward the exit, stopping only at the door way.

“Pour the sugar” – he directed without looking back, – “into your own cup.”


	2. Sticky

II. Noon

Vegeta shut down the generators of the Gravity Room and stood at the console, dripping with sweat. Internally, his muscles burned with excess energy rippling through his cells. It took only seconds for his breathing to return to a steady, slow rhythm, his heart following suit. As the motors and gyros slowed their spins, the GR quieted to a steady rumble of general machinery. He glanced at the panel, tapped a green button with a torn hand written note from Bulma taped to the side.

← PRESS HERE ←

The center screen on the console pulled up his session stats, running through a stream of information and data. Vegeta ran a hand through his spiked mane and scowled. The progress was insulting even though he was beating his body through every kata he could remember. The intensity was beyond anything he had attempted, or even had access to in the past. That sudden recollection caught him short.

_First time I've had a consistently full stomach too._

A rare wind of patience swept across his thoughts and encouraged him to go have lunch.

_I just need time._

He tapped the green button again. With a blink, the console blipped to black. He decided to leave the GR in stand-by so he could resume his training immediately after his meal. The general engines whirred like a muffled blender beneath the floor.

Exiting the modified spaceship, he took flight from the top step out of sheer habit. Thankful for the privacy of the Capsule Corp compound, he was quietly glad he didn't have to put on airs most of the time. Flying was as easy as breathing and he preferred it to walking across the grounds. He elevated above the ship and then above the highest curved roof of the compound, floating across the massive rounded structure.

“...baby, go all night!” A male voice of some familiarity rose from the northern side of the main structure followed by Bulma's laughter. Curious, he paused his approach to the kitchen and sank down to the roof above the primary entrance. He crouched like a sniper at the edge of the building and listened without allowing his form to be too much in the line of sight of the people below.

It was the fool with the scar. In the pit of his stomach, A murky pool of energy swirled through his gut. He chalked it up to hunger.

Yamcha leaned against a tall palm and flipped his bangs with a bright grin. His clothes looked new and surprisingly well-tailored as opposed to his usual ripped up gi. Clearly, he had stopped training for the androids some time ago, yet still felt entitled to pestering Bulma for attention. Vegeta watched her. Would she tell him?

–

“So I took up the offer! Signed with the team and got the contract for the music video at the same time. What can I say, Babe?” Yamcha flashed another grin and struck a pose the Ginyu Force would have been proud of. The olive dress shirt hugged his form well and tapered into pressed, white slacks that were topped with an expensive brown belt. “Looks like the world wants a taste of me. So...”

Bulma stood a few steps from her lover, one hand on her hip, her back facing the compound. She looked more awake from the morning chaos. The pajama crop set had been replaced with a black t-shirt, tied into a knot at her waist, a pair of snug jean shorts, and matching pink sneakers with a pink ball cap. Her blue curls had been pulled back into a puffy single pony tail through the back of the cap.

“So, what Yamcha?” Bulma's voice was laced with curiosity.

Yamcha reached out for her and pulled her with a rough yank across the lawn. She tripped slightly, but he grabbed at her shirt and spun her with an awkward twist. Her shoulder bumped into the tree.

“Fool,” Vegeta smirked and waited for the Woman to smack the idiot across the face for causing her an injury. If only he could see her face contort in anger. Instead, he watched her pressed her hand to his chest with a giggle as the hairs at the base of his neck bristled.

“Careful there, buddy.”

Yamcha held one hand over her head on the trunk of the plan and grinned. His other hand settled on the Woman's hip. Vegeta's stomach tightened.

“Sorry, Babe,” Yamcha chuckled. “So.. how about you pour some sugar on me?” Vegeta stood from his crouched position, all amusement gone from his expression. The crunch of a wayward leaf beneath his boot drew her attention and Bulma looked up, mid-giggle to see the prince staring at the two of them in silence. His expression and posture would have made a stone uncomfortable. Before she could gasp, she watched him lift off and float to the west side of the compound.

_Fuck._

“Look, Yamcha,” Bulma's tone dropped and she looked past him. “We need to have a chat.”

“So true Babe,” Yamcha leaned into her space and grinned, oblivious to the retreating alien. He failed to notice how her body shrank from him just slightly. “I'm about to be a big thing. Maybe even more famous than you! So how about you wear that slinky black number you've got and treat me tonight at West City Marquis Hotel? They've got an awesome restaurant and I know you have that unlimited platinum card.”

“What??” Bulma slipped away from him and off the tree. “You have got to be kidding, Yamcha.”

“What's the matter, Babe,” Yamcha spread his arms out and smirked. “You afraid to be with someone more well-known than you?”

Bulma shut her eyes and shook her head.

“Goodbye Yamcha. Don't come back here for a while, OK?” She turned and walked back to the compound, cheeks flushed, heart beating in a way that bothered her stomach.

“What?” Yamcha finally stood off the tree and followed after her. “Wait a second. Bulma!”

She spun and glared at him. For a moment, pain stabbed through the air and took no prisoners. And that was enough. She hoped she wouldn't lose him forever. He blinked. She looked to the sky, turned, and walked back into the main house.

She bee-lined straight for the kitchen, guessing Vegeta had taken a break for lunch. At least she could tell him that things were settled between her and Yamcha. She wasn't sure why that needed to happen immediately. Not like the guy was a chatterbox. But after this morning, the way he had closed off so quickly, she felt like something needed to be said.

–

The kitchen was empty. No Vegeta, but no stacks of food left by her mother on trays either. He must have just picked them up.

“I think he went to the garden dear,” her mother chimed in as she exited the massive walk-in pantry at the back of the kitchen. “I suggested it! It's such a lovely, bright day don't you think? All that sunshine will help him with that food. What an appetite he's got! Oh! I think the first of the strawberries will be ready soon. Maybe a cake tonight?”

Her mother chittered on with oblivious joy and started measuring out ingredients for a cake. Bulma gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and headed for the back gardens, hoping the reticent prince had listened for once.

She passed along the lemon tree path peppered with bright pink cosmos and ruffled, peach calendulas that announced the entrance to her mother's perfectly manicured gardens. At the end of the path, she considered which direction he would have gone. The lemons had recently bloomed and their scent was overwhelming to her. Her resident alien had pretty sharp senses, so something like these trees would probably bother him. She hung a right and walked down to the water gardens at the south end of the complex.

When she saw him, sitting on a stone bench on the far side of the pond, with a half empty tray of sandwiches, she folded her arms around herself and rubbed. It was almost summer, but a chill rushed across her skin.

_Ok, now what? Maybe I should have just left him alone? Why do I keep letting him get me into these sticky situations? Why can't he just talk to me? When is he going to..._

“Come here or don't.” The terse command interrupted her intrusive second-guessing, but the fact that he grabbed another sandwich and just ate without glancing up to glare at her somehow put her at ease.

She walked the path down and sat on the bench across the narrow pond. For a moment, she watched him eat sandwiches. Three bites. That's all it took for him to wolf the food down before he grabbed another. She realized she was staring at him and dropped her gaze to the reflecting pond between them.

A few clouds crossed the sky above them, drifting along the slowing ripples of the water. She watched the mirrored, lazy vapors in the water before her focus noticed his form in the dark pool. He had finished eating and was looking at the water. He was looking at her reflection. Watching her. Again.

A shock gripped her spine and connected the dots of the morning. He had watched her at breakfast, almost like a predator on the plains of the Eastern Continent. Then moments ago, he had watched her from above, like a hawk in the sky. And now, using the reflection of the pond, he watched her whenever the winds stilled and provided him a glimpse. Her cheeks burned and she gripped her fists in her lap.

“Yamcha won't be coming back for a while.” She kept her eyes on his reflection. The thought of looking at him directly in this moment seemed impossible. Like staring into the sun just after the warmth of sunrise, when the day star rose beyond the reach of the curved horizon. Possible, but painful and ill-advised. The implication behind her words drifted between, and settled in her nerves. Through the imperfect reflections of the pool, they regarded each other. Only a new breeze interrupted them and rippled the pond, ending the shared moment, breaking their indirect eye contact.

He picked up the tray, stood, looked directly at her, meeting her eyes without interruption. Bulma straightened her back and met his eyes. She parted her lips, taking a shallow breath. When her body decided to hold that breath, he let out a small huff of annoyance.

Without a word, he walked toward the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious: [Yamcha's outfit](https://cdn.lookastic.com/looks/long-sleeve-shirt-chinos-tassel-loafers-large-45616.jpg) and [Bulma's outfit](https://cyevi.tumblr.com/post/188174571272). A side interest of mine is gathering outfits for Bulma's closet, so I keep a tag on my tumblr for it. No lies, I want her shirt.


	3. Sweet

III. Evening

Bulma flipped off the plasma welder. With a hiss, it shut down as she stepped away from the workbench. She nudged her goggles off her eyes, resting them on her hairline then pulled the bandanna off her hair, shaking beads of sweat from the tips. Even in her just her white, workshop tank top and long cargo slacks, she was drenched from working with the machines. She reached across the bench and shut off the gravity vacuum, then the noisy exhaust fan. She unlatched her work belt and glanced up at the shop clock. Dispassionate red LED numbers stared back at her.

[ 02:23 ]

She turned and leaned the work bench, stretching her arms above her head. This was probably a good place to stop. The lab would automatically shut down soon anyway. A precaution she had set a few weeks ago to keep her from working on dangerous projects when she was too tired.

Her right hand grabbed her left wrist and tugged, leaning her entire body to the right. As her muscles lengthened, the weight of the last several hours of crouched over her work pulled away from the side of her body. An inadvertent moan escaped her lips as she pondered dunking into a slow bath before she hit the sack.

Vegeta cleared his throat and shook her from the discount stretch session. At the throaty rumble announcing his extremely late intrusion to her lab, her lips frowned, her eyes closed, her brows furrow, and a rather demanding heat shivered from her heart to her groin.

“It is broken.” He tapped the battlebot once against the door frame.

“It wasn't broken this morning.”

“It is broken now.”

Bulma dropped her arms, hands bracing over the edge of the workbench. She opened her eyes with a huff and finally turned her gaze to the man. In her fatigue, her eyes meandered across his body instead of meeting his eyes. If Vegeta were human, she'd worry that he was dehydrated. The definition of his body easily visible through his sweat soaked training top almost tweaked her brain onto an uncanny valley and idly, she wondered why she never associated Goku with this same feeling of “not quite human”. Probably because she grew up with the guy. But not Vegeta. As she lingered somewhere between his obliques and his pectorals with a detour along his biceps, she imagined Vegeta growing up in a castle, spoiled to hell, every whim catered to him.

She tried to picture him sitting on a fancy throne, with a crown, and his sour attitude complaining about some trivial thing. The image wouldn't render in her mind. Something felt off. As her eyes drifted across his shoulders, they lingered on one of his more noticeable scars. Marks that were absent on Goku. And Vegeta had lived in a world with advanced healing devices. The pit of her stomach dropped and she realized she had absolutely no clue what kind of royal life this taciturn prince had actually lived. She chanced a glance at his dark eyes, feeling the frown dissipate from her lips.

Once more today, she watched him watch her. Since he spoke, he had stared at her without much expression. But it was the stillness in his presence that sent shivers along her spine. He waited, she simmered. She met his eyes, and his paused on hers without reaction. A hot flush rose to her cheeks and if she had been asked why her body insisted on blushing, she found she wasn't ready to be honest with herself. She caught a breath and felt her blood pump along her neck.

Still in the doorway, Vegeta considered dropping the bot and heading to sleep. He was tired. And not from his training. He was tired of her indecision. Being with her once, weeks before, had been a salve he hadn't known he needed. Her heady scent from whatever she had been working on before he passed the threshold of the lab had caused him to pause. Sweat, electricity, and Her. He would have taken her right then if he could. But her ongoing indecision was driving him nuts. She seemed to hint that her pairing with the fool had stopped, yet she had not indicated what she wanted with him, if anything.

He watched her body curve over the work surface, her muscles stretch in his direction, her flesh begin to flush with heat as her thoughts of him brushed against her mind. But still, she wouldn't approach him honestly. Was he wrong? Was he misunderstanding her behavior? Probably. An orphaned warrior, with no home, no people, who lost to his greatest enemy, who lost everything, who couldn't even attain his birthright. Every day he fell further behind. Anger bit at his stomach and in a blink, he threw the damaged bot across the lab with a growl.

“What the –” Bulma started just as the fighter drone collided with a stack of volatile chemicals and exploded into cascading red flames. The shock wave shoved her off the workbench, forcing her eyes shut. Her body thumped against the back wall and she mentally braced for the waves of heat that would char her skin.

They never came. The roar of the explosion died as the lab's fire suppressant system came online and blocked off the back of the lab with blast doors. High pressured air flooded through the front of the lab and swept the rampant particulates into the ceiling. Air rushed past her, but swirled in an odd way as if blocked by a wall. She chanced a glance and opened her eyes. She expected the flashing alarm lights, drifts of smoke, and general chaos. She did not expect to be surrounded by muscular arms and tucked against a chest.

She chanced a glance upwards and saw his face, eyes shut tightly, one hand bracing his body against the wall, the other wrapped around her back. His fingers pressed against her shoulder blade, clutching lightly.

“Sorry,” he muttered and began to release her body. Without much thought, her hands darted up and gripped his jawline.

“Look at me.” She moved her body with his as they relaxed, no longer in danger from the blast. With the danger contained, the alarms canceled and the lab quieted once more. He kept his hand on the wall as she stood against him, her hips lining up with his. She pressed, her voice wanton and soft. “Vegeta, look at me.”

The prince without a kingdom opened his eyes and regarded her. She smiled softly and stroked her thumb at his temple, coaxing him into her space.

“You saved me,” she whispered coyly, but slid one hand back onto the nape of his neck, her fingers stroking through his thick spikes of hair. She watched his eyes focus more keenly on her, his hips shifting against hers. Through his muscles pressed against her body, she could register his impatience. As if he were about to begin a race, but the starting gun hadn't fired yet. “That was sweet of you.”

Bulma bit the inside of her cheek as Vegeta tilted his head slightly, like a dog hearing its favorite word.

“Sweet?” His grip on her back softened as he contemplated the meaning. “Like sugar?”

She stroked a finger from the tip of his hairline, down his spine, and nodded. Her smile broadened as bubbles welled up in her stomach. His eyes drifted away from her as he seemed to put something together. Between them, the air compressed. As his distraction lingered, the ambient pulse of his latent energy sent delicate tingles of soft electricity cascading along her skin and flirted with her nerves.

“If I am sweet, it is like giving you sugar?” Her thumb left his temple and traced the angle of his jaw. Her heart sped up as her fingertips neared his lips.

“Mm.. a little.” Her eyes darted down to his throat, just in time to see him swallow. The bob of his Adam's apple brushed against her pinkie. The rare display of uncertainty and hesitation in him lit something deep in her core. His eyes locked onto hers as his hips, complete with an unmistakable bulge pressed against her inner thigh.

“I understand now,” he began, his voice tinted with a dark rumble. His hand left the wall and slid down both sides of her body, thumbs brushing against the slight outer curve of her breasts. Her back curved toward him in response, her nipples perking against the thin, white tank that still stuck to her sweaty skin. Her lips released a small, silent gasp. When he saw how her eyes softened, how her body lifted against his own, he dropped his hands to her hips. With a precise jerk, he pulled her flush against his own body, hips grinding without shame. He lowered his lips to her neck, brushing them against her flesh before trailing up to her earlobe.

“You smell so _sweet_ to me. Being near you now, since our first rut, but not having you is driving me crazy. Like a bomb with an unending fuse. Like you, before you change your coffee with sugar.” The slow, quiet confession was, to date, the longest set of words he had ever shared with her. It was clunky, and desperate, and deeply honest. “One time wasn't enough. Pour some sugar on me, and I'll go all night.”

He finished the last words of his plea with his lips beneath her earlobe and began trailing steady, light kisses down her neck. Bulma couldn't move. The directness of his words punctuated by the gentleness of his lips sent a wild shock through her heart, to the tip of every nerve and pooled in her groin. Blood flushed across her cheeks and her vision blurred. As he ground his body against hers, she realized that if he let go, she would melt to the floor. Her fingers gripped his hair tightly, pulling herself into his touch.

Gloved hands slipped beneath the hem of her tank and nudged it up, bunching the fabric with his thumbs under her breasts. He palmed the sides of her breasts, still covered by her shirt, but shifted his thumbs beneath the fabric, brushing across her stiff nipples.

“Bulma,” he muttered into her shoulder, “Please.”

This is what she had wanted for so many years. Not just lust, but desire. Between her legs, heat began to pool. She raised one thigh against his, opening herself to his advance. With Yamcha, it always seemed to go one way. Either he wanted her, or she wanted him, but neither of them at the same time. A relationship of convenience and chance. But right now, as Vegeta rocked his hardness between her legs, Bulma's brain churned and fizzed with need. He wanted her, and finally, she could accept wanting him as well. Her lips parted with a hot pant as she lifted up on her balls of her foot to meet him, her other leg wrapping around his hip.

“Yes.”

He whipped off her tank, she tugged at his shirt, and their bodies crushed together as he engulfed her with a deep, neck-bending kiss. Her body curved with his direction, his hands shoving down her sides to push away her pants, hers following suit on his hips. Her tongue wrapped around his and licked at the roof of his mouth. Her remaining clothing dropped to the floor. With a kick, she managed to fling away the remnants. Vegeta's skin-tight pants were stuck halfway down his thighs, but this seemed to be good enough for them. With ease, he lifted her bare ass onto a smooth work table against the wall and was rewarded with a sweet moan from her lips.

Bulma's right hand jolted to Vegeta's wrist. Her fingers slipped under the hem of his glove, urging him to remove the barrier. Without taking his eyes off hers, he pulled his hand up to his mouth, bit the glove, and yanked it off with all the grace of a wild animal tearing into a fresh kill. Bulma shuddered at the sight, a warm sigh rumbling past her lips.

“Touch me,” she pleaded, nudging his bare hand between her legs. Quick to obey, his fingers traced her outer lips, stroking from top to bottom, barely grazing her downy flesh. When the tips of his fingers reached the base of her lips, he nudged them just between her folds and parted her flesh the smallest possible amount. As if he were seeking a delicate treasure, his fingers traced back up between her lips, exposing her wet entrance to the residual heat of the lab and his body. The teasing motion prompted Bulma to brace her body by grabbing onto his bicep with her other hand.

Vegeta watched her face contort, her eyes clenching and cheeks flushing with heat. Her breathing quickened and his eyes dropped, watching her breasts rise as she arched her back into his ministrations. He held a groan in his throat and slipped a fingertip against her eager entrance while his thumb pressed against the top of her mound, just between her lips. Her clit shivered under his touch and she moaned, gripping his arm with her nails.

Although there was no real pain from her grip, her apparent desire to mark him pushed his brain over the edge. He dropped his lips to her ear as his finger slipped into her, curing inward and stroking her internally.

“I will fill you,” he chuffed, almost growling behind her ear. She rocked her hips against his hand and mewled in agreement. His thumb circled around her clit twice before he removed his finger. With his now soaked hand, he spread her pussy wide, leaning back to take in the sight of her. She met his pause with bright, glazed blue eyes. The intensity passed through his stomach and landed in his groin.

Bulma shifted slightly on the workbench, widening her legs. Vegeta wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and positioned the head at her entrance, nudging her pussy open, but not pressing in. With their bodies lined up, Vegeta grabbed her hands and pinned them to the edge of the workbench. He watched her swallow a breath, her chest heaving, nipples taut and flushed. She moved her lips, but didn't speak.

_Yes._

Vegeta turned his hands atop hers enough to hook a few fingers between hers then pushed his cock in slowly, savoring each inch inside her body. His body moved like a waking piston, the first stroke easing into position until his hips joined hers.

Having fully expected a hard entrance, the slowness had caught Bulma off-guard, immediately triggering a minor orgasm. Her body shuddered around his as his cock stretched her open then nestled deep inside her body. Panting, her jaw shivering, her fingers gripped his and she raised her hips with a slow, grinding circle, feeling his full length.

He pulled back, her leg wrapped around his hip, he shoved back in, quickly, then stopped again, relishing her heat. Between them, her juices coated him and began to spill from her lips. Vegeta began a rhythmic pace, pulling out slowly and stroking inward quickly. Other than their heated breaths, the only sound in the lab was sweat slapping between their bodies.

Beneath his hands, he could feel her shivering again, tugging at his grip as she strained to match his movements with her own. She tossed her head back, arching her back. The line from her throat, along her sternum, between her breasts, and down her taut belly fascinated him. Just as he sped up his thrusts, fucking her with a steady pulse, the overhead lights in the lab shut off leaving two gyrating, sweaty forms illuminated only by the red LED clock.

Vegeta grunted and clenched his teeth, a sharp pain hitting the nerves of his incisors. The sudden change in lighting, seeing her flesh in the red shadows, shuddering with each thrust, panting and grinding below him set off a deep, ancient sensation in his brain. As if he had been forced to transform, but had no agency over the change. He closed his eyes, released one of her hands and braced himself against the wall behind her. Her warmth engulfing him, the mix of sex and battlelust urged him to rut faster.

Bulma's free hand wrapped around his ribs and gripped his back with her nails as his pace increased. Her pussy began to tense, gripping his cock with irregular, desperate suckles. She pulled her chest against his and pressed her lips to his neck, licking like a kitten taking milk.

“Bulma, I – ” he groaned, each stroke quick, deep. His fingers pressed into the wall, gripping through the plaster as he braced himself. His other hand released hers and slipped between her legs. A still-gloved thumb nudged against her clit with quick, upward strokes. This time, her nails broke through the skin on his back. She came with a shuddering scream, both her legs wrapping around his hips in an attempt to pull him in tightly.

He acquiesced and pressed his cock in fully, pausing as he filled her. Only a trickle of his own blood slipped along his spine in that moment. He came inside her, his cock throbbing several times. Pinned together, he dropped his head to her shoulder, panting loudly. She moaned, rocking her hips in a circle as her womb filled with hot cum, pressing against her inner walls.

They stayed on the workbench, her pussy corked with his cock and filled almost uncomfortably full, as their breathing settled down. Bulma's nails relaxed on his back and as she came down from the high of her orgasm, she traced her fingertips along his muscles, absently tracing swirls on his skin.

“Join me in my bed tonight?” Bulma asked as she pressed her cheek to his ear. Vegeta released the wall behind them and licked her shoulder before leaning up to look at her face. She swallowed a breath, but her lips curved in a soft, welcoming smile. He regarded her for a moment, his breathing settling back into a regular pattern, then tilted his head.

“Tell me you will not see him again.”

His request was so blunt, she pushed at his shoulders to separate their bodies. He moved back without complaint, pulling his cock from her pussy. With a gasp, they were two once more, though she shifted her hips as his cum began to drip from her lips. Bulma sat up, closing her legs. Vegeta grabbed her tank top and handed it to her. As she pulled it on, he pulled his pants back up from his thighs. He collected his glove and watched her face try to decide on an answer. She nodded.

“I won't.” Bulma slipped off the workbench and collected the rest of her clothes without meeting his eyes. She tossed him his shirt and headed for the lab door. She paused at the door, dropped her chin, then turned to look at him. The red light cast strange shadows across his muscles and caused his eyes to glint in a distinctly inhuman way. She bit the inside of her cheek and felt a smile curve the edge of her lips. “See you soon.”

She left, the lab door closing noiselessly behind her. Vegeta waited for a moment, listening to her steps recede down the hallway. He considered her words. His hand clenched his shirt as his eyes drifted to the crushed wall above the spot he had had her moments before, panting beneath his body.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the pancakes were a lie.
> 
> Here's hoping you enjoyed a short trip into one idea about B&V's second time. So many excellent stories in the Three Year Gap, I thought it would be fun to explore the idea of their second joining, along with the premise that neither is particularly unfamiliar with sex in general. On top of that.. what if Bulma never made a clean break with Yamcha? Maybe they went back and forth several times, while she and Vegeta were starting things. How would that have played out? Maybe something between acceptance and denial, on everyone's part. None of them, Bulma, Yamcha, nor Vegeta, seem like they have good relationship or communication skills at this point in their lives. Pile on misunderstandings, and you end up with a few chapters of sex and angst. BUT, this is the end of this particular story. C/C always welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> For the crisis on Namek, I feel like the characters, Saiyan and Earthling alike, shared a common language and goals. Get the orbs, don't die. There were times that Vegeta had a scouter to help with language, and times he did not. A battle for life and death has some pretty specific words he might use. But stuck in Earthing culture, without a clear and present danger or a translating scouter, he would be drowning in idioms, connotations, and unclear nuances. So, a favorite headcanon of mine is that he's trying to pick up on these slight differences, but usually ends up pissing off Bulma and generally being misunderstood by everyone. But body language? He's an expert. Not just because he's a fighter, but because of his position. Trying to ferret out liars, subterfuge, and other forms of dishonesty would be a critical skill to keep yourself on the throne, or at the very least, alive in Frieza's court.


End file.
